


Memoirs of a Forgotten Man

by FuzzyBlueStockings



Category: My Man Godfrey
Genre: 1930s, Alcohol, Backstory, Butlers, F/M, Great Depression, Hidden Depths, Homelessness, Immaturity, Impersonation, Love, More alcohol, New York City, Not Necessarily "Thin Man" Levels of Alcohol, Plenty of alcohol, References to Depression, Remarriage, Romantic Comedy, Skiing, but still, night life, screwball comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8911600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuzzyBlueStockings/pseuds/FuzzyBlueStockings
Summary: "Stand still, Godfrey. It'll all be over in a minute." With those words, one of the more improbable couplings to have formed within Park Avenue's gossamer bubble was born. But if the plan of a certain daffy young socialite to catch a certain Harvard man-turned-vagrant-turned-butler extraordinaire must be deemed a success, one must wonder: What happened after that minute?





	1. Chapter 1

I have come to a conclusion that I hope will aid me in this story, which I suspect will amount to something of an extended confession. It is this: that a bout of temporary insanity does not make a man especially dangerous. It is afterward, when he is trying to reassemble his world, piece by piece, that he does things he will soon regret.

You see, I do not think I could have been of sound mind when I agreed to work for the Bullocks of 1101 Park Avenue. And I certainly was not when I married Miss Irene Bullock, their younger daughter. Even now, the whole ceremony registers only as a sort of dim, hazy mental lithograph. It took place at my nightclub—that much I know. There was my office; there was Irene; there was the mayor; there was the faraway sound of my voice saying, “I do.” Beyond that, I cannot tell you. All I can say is that Irene’s dizziness is catching.

When I came to, there she was, zipping about my living quarters like a goldfinch on the wing. She busied herself laying out vegetables in the icebox and turning each object in the room this way and that. And babbling up a storm, as she always did.

“Oh Godfrey, we’re married! We're finally married! I’ve been waiting for this day for as long as I can remember. I’ve always wondered what kind of wife I’d be and I’ve decided I’m going to be just wonderful at it. Really, just wonderful. You’ll see. I’ve got it all figured out. I’m going to learn how to sew and cook and we’ll have pot roast and ham and potatoes and we’re going to have beautiful babies and they’re all going to grow up right here.”

“Irene—“

“And I’m going to help you in the club and we’re going to go fishing and boating in the daytime and we’re going to have heaps of fun, always.“

“Yes, but Irene—“

“And you’ll sit right here with your slippers and pipe—you do smoke a pipe, don’t you? If you don’t I think you should. You’d look so distinguished in slippers and a pipe and a—“

“IRENE!”

“Yes, dear?” She tilted her head.

You wouldn’t think I’d have been the one gasping for air at that point. But there I was, trying to recover my thoughts and some much-needed oxygen at the same time.

“I—aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?” She glanced around. “Of course! My trousseau!”

She reappeared with it before I had the chance to catch my breath.

“Of course it’s not a real trousseau but I didn’t think I really needed a whole trunk of clothes because I can always send for them later. It’s just a few of my dresses and some shoes and a hat and—oh,  Godfrey! Wait ‘til you see my negligee! I bought it at Wanamaker’s for just such an occasion, and I know you’ll just love it. I’ve been learning how to economize, you see. But anyway, you’ll love it. Wait here.”

She galloped into the bedroom to put it on. When she emerged, she looked very fetching indeed. Though she might have considered choosing something with fewer ostrich feathers, which seemed to choke the garment into submission.

But it bears repeating that she looked lovely, in a way that I could only regard with stunned appreciation. She always did, even at her most harebrained, when she resembled nothing so much as a bright, whirling pillar of fire. If I’d had any sense, I’d have let things take their natural course. But something made me keep her at bay. I suppose it was the old Bostonian in me.

“Now see here, don’t you think we’re rushing things a little?”

“Rushing things? Oh no. Not at all. Not when we’re in love and married and—“

“But I—“

“And now that you’re all established and not a forgotten man anymore—though to tell you the truth I think I would have married you anyway, though I’m sure Mother would have had a fit. Oh, Mother!”

She was advancing toward me.

“Irene, if you’ll just listen—”

“But still, now that you’re not a forgotten man, we can go ahead and settle down and can live happily—“

“But for the last time, I DON’T love you!”

Silence.

Why? Why did I say it? I still ask myself that question. If I’ve caught you in a charitable frame of mind, you might attribute it to nerves. I wasn’t as established as she thought. Not yet, anyway. The nightclub, for all its celebrated novelty, still hadn't turned anything close to a profit. Perhaps you’d say that certain memories of Boston were still too fresh for me to take a chance again. Perhaps you’d say that I was just so confounded by the situation that I grasped at any measure of control I could. Perhaps, also, you’d delicately point out that to me—or at least in relation to me—Irene was still a child. A sweet child, of course. But one that, frankly, I couldn’t imagine going to bed with without despising myself afterward.

Yet no matter how charitable you’re feeling, you’d have to call me a liar. Because I was. However conflicted I was about the exact nature of my feelings for Irene, I cared for her a great deal. Too much to bear seeing her hurt.

I held out momentary hope that she would simply brush it off somehow. Maybe she’d sulk flamboyantly, as she used to, or tell me she loved it when I lost my temper. But no. The damage was done this time. I could only watch with helpless wonder as the full force of that exclamation settled in. The glow drained from her face. Her voice shook.

“You—you don’t—“

(Say something, stupid.)

“But you promised to love, honor and—Godfrey! You did promise! I heard you promise—“

(SAY something!)

But I didn’t. And Irene looked as if the world had crumbled to ashes before her eyes.

She stood motionless before glancing down at herself. She ran back to the bedroom. Not five minutes later, she reappeared with her street clothes on and her suitcase packed.

Her eyes were damp, but she neither whined nor whimpered. She was even suppressing her natural inclination to pout. This was Irene trying to act grown-up and, well, it just about made a wreck of me.

“Godfrey, you love me. I know you do, just as I love you. But if you insist on fighting it, even now, then it’s—it’s over. It’s all over. I can’t stay here.”

I was too winded to speak. She fastened on a hat with two large pins, speaking to me as she looked into the mirror on the wall.

“And another thing: Don't you go around lecturing people on propiety—”

“Propriety”

“—propriety ever again. I may never get the hang of it like you have. But as anyone with half a brain can tell you, there’s nothing more proper than a man who can admit he loves his wife.”

Fighting back fresh tears, she turned to me one more time.

“Goodbye, Godfrey.”

So there you have it. If I had simply given in to the insanity of my wedding night, I might not have made the biggest mistake of my life.


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, my second biggest mistake was to stop myself from following her. To assume that she would simply return to her family for a few days to calm down before we met again and talked things over. How could I have been so foolish? Even I, Godfrey Parke of the Boston Parkes, brought up to be the epitome of good breeding and sense, had so completely turned to jelly after romantic misfortune that I nearly drowned myself in the river. How could I expect more gumption from this innocent, flighty young girl? How _dare_ I?

After four days, it had become clear that Irene had not gone back to her family. They telephoned and summoned me over.

“Look here, Godfrey,” said Mr. Bullock as he paced across the room. “Irene was shouting something before she left. I couldn’t understand much. Something about going down to the dump to be married.”

“Yes, you know Irene. She always shouts when she wins!” trilled Mrs. Bullock.

“Never mind that!” Mr. Bullock snapped before returning to me. “Now, do you mind telling me just what DID happen?”

“We are married, sir, yes.”

He looked at me appraisingly for a second. After evidently deciding that this turn of events was not the biggest catastrophe that had ever befallen him, he pressed on:

“And?”

“And I—“ I struggled to get the words out. “I upset her.”

“You upset her?”

“Yes, sir.”

I was afraid he was going to ask how. But he just tapped his cigar and said, “Well, that will happen with Irene. She’ll start bawling at the drop of a hat. But didn’t she say where she was going?”

“No, sir. I’d assumed she was coming here.”

“Well, as you can see, she hasn’t. Now just what do you propose to do about it?”

I sat down and balanced my forehead on one hand. My chest had begun to feel tight, but I tried to keep a clear head.

“I suppose we should telephone the police.”

“Oh no no,” said Mrs. Bullock as she placed herself between us. “There’s no call for that. Don’t be silly.”

“But if Irene still hasn’t returned, madam—“

“No no, I won’t have it. Word would get out and her picture would be in all those horrid newspapers.”

“So?” Mr. Bullock barked.

“So there has never been a breath of scandal about this family, and I won’t have there be one now.”

Mr. Bullock and I stood agog, in a library which after all once contained a horse purloined from a hansom-cab driver. Of all the ridiculous things Angelica Bullock had said in her life—and they were many and varied—that no doubt topped them all. If scandal could indeed be measured in individual breaths, the Bullock family would be close to hyperventilating.

To appease her, though, Mr. Bullock decided instead to hire a private detective to learn of Irene's whereabouts.

“I only hope she hasn’t done something foolish,” he said. “And since she's part of this family, that’s always possible.”

He exited the room. Mrs. Bullock still appeared cheerfully unruffled by it all. She took my hand.

“You’re not to worry, Godfrey. Irene’s run away many times.”

“Is that so?”

“Why, yes! She used to stomp out of the house with a little bindle stick over her shoulder. But then she’d come right back home when she realized she didn’t pack enough. We laughed ourselves silly! Really, Godfrey, you mustn’t take it seriously.”

I excused myself as quickly as possible. I had always pegged Cornelia, who was then away on another pleasure trip, as the most pernicious of the lot. But I now knew that the title belonged to her mother. To have her be so cavalier about Irene’s disappearance made me close to losing my temper. I believe that brazen ignorance is sometimes worse than malevolence, and at that moment Mrs. Bullock had it in spades.


	3. Chapter 3

You may rest assured, though, that I saved the lion’s share of disgust for myself. That night, I went to Kerry’s Bar intending to drown myself in gin—that was another old habit that died hard. But about halfway on my journey toward insensibility, someone sat next to me. The sound of a hatchet-sharp contralto put a familiar chill in my bones.

“Vodka gimlet.”

I turned to face Cornelia. “Back from Lake Placid?”

“Obviously,” she replied as she removed her gloves.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I flew down as soon as I heard.”

“Then why aren’t you at home?” I muttered. My fingers set about mangling a swizzle stick.

“Well!” she said after knocking back the cocktail. “Mother seems quite blasé about the whole thing. As if Irene were just taking a little stroll around the park. Makes me sick.”

Planes and Lake Placid aside, she really had changed since her family’s financial scare. I’d forgotten about that.

“That makes two of us,” I said. “You don’t think Irene is pretending again?”

“You ought to know better. Irene likes to do her pretending in person, where everyone can see it. This is different. I’m sure of it.”

She turned and looked at me.

“What did you say to her, Godfrey?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to discuss it.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I do mind. Say it.”

I knew I wasn’t going to get out of it this time. Fixing my eyes on the harsh gleam of the gin, I told her.

“And is that the truth?”

“No,” I sighed, expelling my last ounce of resistance. “I love her. There’s no use fighting it. I realize that now.”

“Now that you’ve lost your chance, you mean?” She let out a caustic laugh. “You’ve got an awfully funny sense of timing, Godfrey.”

Not a completely reformed character. To blast every last bit of malice out of dear little Cornelia Bullock would require the use of a jackhammer.

“Thank you. The thought had occurred to me.”

She ordered a second drink, then a third.

“What are we going to do?”

“Do? Well, your father hired a detective—“

She grew heated. “And you think that’s enough, do you? You’re a fool, Godfrey.”

“Now look here!” I set my glass down.

“A damned fool!”

But a crack in her voice gave her away. This wasn’t anger. It was panic.

“Calm down,” I said, half-soused hypocrite that I was. “I've been planning on looking for her myself as well.”

“Then I’ll help you.”

“If you wish. But I warn you—you’d better be careful.”

“I can take care of myself, thank you.”

We drank some more.

“There’s no telling what she’s got herself mixed up in,” I said as the world began to go cockeyed before me.

“I suppose we have you to thank for that.”

I fumbled with my glass. “Yes, I suppose we do.”

She grabbed my shoulder with one hand while waving a scarlet-tipped finger at me with the other. “Godfrey, listen to me: We’ve got to find her. If we don’t, I’ll never forgive you. And believe you me, I can make your life a living nightmare over it.”

“Here now,” I said, clumsily attempting to fob her off. “You—you haven’t exactly been an angel to her yourself.”

“There’s a difference, and you know it.” She stood up. Her voice maintained its steady edge, resisting the effects of those last six vodka gimlets. “I teased Irene. I pulled her hair when she was little. I’ve smashed up windows and set policemen’s dogs loose and gotten her blamed for all of it. I’ve belittled her, berated her, stolen her beaus, and even socked her once or twice. In short, I’ve made her otherwise cosseted existence as miserable as I could. But I did not, Godfrey, I did NOT tell her that I didn’t love her!”

With that, she spun on her heels and walked away, a stumble only slightly interfering with her efforts to leave with her dignity intact.

“I stand corrected,” I said, my tongue heavy and plush in my mouth, before promptly falling off my barstool.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, fortified by what must have been a gallon’s worth of pixie remover, I got to work. It’s remarkable what sort of contacts you get from living in a city dump--I doubt any detective could do better. Word spread fast. Not all of what I heard back was reliable. There had been sightings of Irene everywhere from Bendel’s to the Bowery, or so they told me. But in every case, I found reason for doubt.

A week later, Mr. Bullock’s hired detective sat us down. He said that he’d received reports that Irene was living in a cave in Central Park with an old derelict. I’d heard of him—Smokey Peters. One of my boys at the club used to bum cigarettes from him. He said Peters seemed like a nice enough fellow, but he wondered what in the world he could be doing with Irene. I did too, and I confess that the thought made my blood boil. I tracked him down in the park.

“Calm down, feller!  You’ve got it all wrong,” he shouted. “Sure, I let her stay at my place, but—“

I lost my head a little.

“But WHAT?” I grabbed him by the collar. “Where is she? If I found out that you—“

“Let go, willya?” Smokey shoved my hands away. “What I’m tryin’ to tell ya is that she stayed the night with me ‘n the missus and then off she went.”

“The missus?” I said. “You have a wife?”

“Yessir. Well common-law, anyway. But you get the idea.”

“And she lives with you in a cave?”

“It’s a cherce piece of real estate ‘round here, I’m tellin’ ya,” he said. “If you don’t mind the damp.”

I held my head and sat down on a park bench. “Look, I don’t really know much about what happened. If you’ll just start from the beginning, I’d appreciate it.”

He stroked his whiskered chin. “Well, I was walking around about a week ago, and I sees this blonde dame sittin’ on one of these here benches.”

“If you’ll pardon me, we’ll dispense with the ‘dame’ talk,” I said. “The lady under discussion happens to be my wife.”

“Your wife? Whoo-wee!” he exclaimed. “You’ve got yourself quite a little gal, there, ya lucky stiff.“ He gave me an unwelcome knock on the shoulder. “Now how did an old feller like you…”

“If you please,” I said, feeling more than a little self-conscious. “I wish you would just tell me about what happened.”

He shrugged. “Well anyway, she was sittin’ here and she comes up and asks me how many floors I thinks is on the Empire State Building. And I says I dunno, but—“

“The Empire State—“ Suddenly my blood ran cold. “Oh, no. You don’t mean that—“

“Nah, don’t worry, mister”—he could tell what I was thinking—“Don’t think that’s what she was getting at. But I got to talking with her and she said she figgered on sleeping right here, out in the open. And so I says I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“You’re not kidding,” I said softly.

“So I took her back to our place and explained it to Hortense—that’s my little woman, you see—“

“She was all right with this arrangement?”

“Sure, when I explained it to her. Almost like having a kid of our own for the night. And your wife seemed to be having quite the time. Said it was like camping.”

“Yes, well, I hope you’ll excuse Irene,” I said. “She’s a little unworldly.”

“Figgered as much. Don’t think she slept real comfortable, though. Not much room in there, you see. Hortense said she could hear her toss and turn all night. And, well, the next morning she was gone.”

I shut my eyes in frustration. “And she didn’t say where she was going.”

“Sorry, mister.”

I got up to leave.

“Well, thanks anyway.”

“Sure thing. Hope you find her.”

And then I stopped myself. Smokey—I knew his kind. Like the men who'd offered to help me when I had given up on everything. The ones who shared what little they had to get me on my feet again. But of course I had to go and behave like a boor to him. This would not do.

I turned around and walked back to where he was sitting.

“What did you do before the crash?”

His cheery facade vanished. His voice now possessed a defensive edge.

“Had me a hardware store, up in Washington Heights. What’s it to you?”

A $20 bill emerged from my wallet. It landed with a soft crackle into the palm of his hand.

“Listen carefully. I want you to rent a suit, get a shave, and buy some new shoes. Then I want you to go over to 32 East River Drive. There’s a night spot there called The Dump. Ask to see Mike Lynam, the manager. Tell him Godfrey Parke sent you.”

He looked up at me, his face a wary, quizzical blank.

“I’d advise you to do it today. It won’t be hardware, but it’ll be something.”

“What?”

“I’ll be seeing you,” I said before leaving. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Smokey run further into the park.

“Hortense! HORTENSE!”

He’d just realized what I meant.


	5. Chapter 5

A stretch of false leads followed for about a month afterward. Tommy Gray had agreed to help with the club while I searched for Irene. He took somewhat cruel delight in pointing out the gray hairs that had sprouted onto my head. My mind seemed to age more rapidly, too. I kept misplacing things. Nothing too important: my pen, my cufflinks, my cigarette case. But that was unlike me. Whatever conscientious habits I had built up in my efforts to become a competent butler had been eaten away by worry.

Thus when Cornelia arrived at my office, I prepared myself for the worst. But when she grabbed my hand, it was with a vigor that could not have been borne of despair.

“She’s with Molly.”

“What?”

“She’s with Molly, Godfrey! She’s been living in Molly’s apartment. She didn’t want any of us to know. But she's there, just the same."

“Cornelia, are you sure—“

“As sure as anything.”

Cornelia was still trying to maintain her composure, but I could tell she was as keyed up as I was. Her face broke into a smile.

“We can rest easy now. She’s safe.”

With that, we embraced. At first I took no notice of anything but an overwhelming sense of relief. But after a while, I realized that Cornelia was still pressing herself against me, her head buried in my chest. With some delicacy, I attempted to make her aware of the situation.

“Now, Cornelia.”

“Yes?

“Don’t you think you ought to let go?”

“No.”

Of course that had to be the moment that Tommy walked in. He left soon thereafter, but not before flashing me an elevated eyebrow that spoke volumes.

“ _Cornelia!_ ” I exclaimed after I finally freed myself. “Don’t you think I’m in enough trouble already?”

She smoothed out her skirt. It was clear than any further damage that little scene did to my reputation didn’t bother her a bit.

“Must we make this all about you again?”

“I’m not making this about myself, I—oh, I give up.”

She seemed satisfied by that response.

“You say she is with Molly, then? That’s funny. I'd presumed Molly was still with your family.”

“No. She left a little while after you did.”

“Did she? Hm. I hope I had nothing to do with that.”

Cornelia shot me a sly glance. “Oh-ho, didn’t you?”

That answered that.

“When can we go see her?”

“We?” she replied. “There’s no we. _I’m_ having lunch with Irene next Tuesday.”

“Cornelia—“

“She doesn’t want to see you, Godfrey. I thought you'd have figured out that much.”

I did suspect it, but the confirmation still wounded me. I sat down and looked for something to do with my hands.

“I’ll at least want to see Molly,” I said, trying to busy myself with the bills stacked on my desk. “As long as she’s taking care of Irene, I want to see to it that it’s not a hardship.”

“Suit yourself, only she won’t be thrilled to see you either.”

I sighed and stood up. “You really know how to cheer a fellow up, don’t you?”

“That depends,” she said, circling halfway around me. “I would have thought you’d be happy knowing your wife is alive and out of harm’s way. But if you’d prefer to tend to your poor little bruised ego, then by all means go ahead.”

She scooped up her purse and left. Half of me suspected she was right. The other half regretted that there were no ashpiles in my office. She could use a good shoving.


	6. Chapter 6

I’ll give Cornelia this, however: She certainly wasn’t kidding about Molly. I hadn't thought that she was, but I also didn’t think that my old chum from the Bullock kitchen would greet me with a fresh slap on the face. But there I was, standing on the steps of her apartment building, hand on my tingling cheek, listening to her tell me all the reasons why I deserved it.

“You’re the worst kind of heel, Godfrey Smith. You know that?”

“It’s Parke.”

“What?”

“My name is Godfrey Parke. You might as well know.”

“I don’t care. Whatever your name is, I expected better from you. I thought you were all right. Turns out you’re just as rotten as the rest of them.”

“Molly, if you’ll just—“

“To think you’d go and welsh on your marriage vows right out of the gate! And if you think you can walk up here and have Irene just hand herself over to you, I’m telling you, mister: You’ve got another thing coming!”

“That was not my intention, Molly.”

“What are you doing here, then? Don't tell me you're the new milkman.”

“Of course not,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am to you.”

“You are?” She said, her tone suddenly softening. A funny little cycle of reactions—surprise, hope, wounded disappointment, and then back to ire—flickered through her eyes. Please don’t think me conceited, but at that point I saw that Molly really had gone for me in a way I hadn’t completely understood until then. What’s more, her feelings hadn’t gone away. In fact, I think it added to the force of her anger. Without knowing it, I’d betrayed her, too.

That made me even more uneasy. Had I been a butler at the Bullocks’ home or a gigolo? The thought lodged into my brain and gave me a pounding headache.

I took out a roll of bills. “Yes, Molly, I am grateful. And I wanted to make sure that you were able to look after her.”

She pushed my hand away. “Save it. I’m not looking after her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She’s paying her own way. The food, the rent, you name it.”

“Oh, I see. Her father’s sending her money?”

She put her hands on her hips. “Godfrey, do you speak English? I said her _own_ way.”

“But how?”

“With a job.”

“A job?”

Molly rolled her eyes and began speaking in one- and two-word sentences. “Yes. A. Job, Godfrey. Irene. Has. A. Job.”

“You needn’t condescend, Molly.”

“I do if you can’t get a simple fact through your head. She’s working at a hat shop. I mean, it’s not enough for her to live in high style, of course, but she and I get along fine.”

“But how did she get it? She has no experience.”

“Oh, I helped her a little. I know the manager.”

“You do?”

“Yes. And, well, let’s just say he owes me one,” Molly replied, suggestively patting her hair.

I decided that was an avenue best left unexplored.

“Would you be so good as to tell me where?”

“Not on your life!” she snapped. “Now you listen here, Godfrey Smith, or Parke, or whoever you are. I’m seeing to it that you stay away from Irene. You’re no good for her, and she’s getting wise to you.”

I shut my eyes. “I have no doubt. But I hope she’ll at least let me talk to her.”

Molly looked away.

“After all, she is my wife.”

“For now,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Though from what I hear, getting an annulment would be a cinch. That was some wedding night you didn’t have.”

I left shortly thereafter, finding myself unable to keep from blushing. Good gracious—women do tell each other everything, don’t they?


	7. Chapter 7

Locating the hat shop took only a few days, even though there were plenty in Manhattan and, to avoid landing a new Bullock feature in the society pages, Irene wasn’t using her real name. It was a modest but not shabby establishment near Madison Square Park, its sign edged with precise curling serifs in gold-leaf paint. I removed my hat as I entered.

A smiling, ruddy-faced woman asked if I needed help. I stopped myself from asking for Irene Bullock, as Tommy Gray had confirmed that she had given them the name Wilkerson. But for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to ask for Irene Wilkerson, either. I said I wished to browse and was left alone.

The fact that I wasn’t actually in the market for ladies’ hats made the next few minutes of silent pretense feel like hours. I began to worry that I had the wrong establishment. But then there was a rustle from the back room.

That dress was the plainest I can ever recall her wearing, solid black with a small, scalloped Peter Pan collar. But if anything, the lack of frills worked to offset that curious glow of hers better than any jeweled or beaded creation. Her eyes were bright but not wild. In fact, she looked downright serious, which never looked right on her.

But there she was, and for the first time in a month I could breathe again. But, strangely enough, I was also light-headed. I hope you’ll forgive the contradiction. Mere words might not be sufficient to describe the feeling of being in her presence again.

I look back on that moment with a little embarrassment. To think of myself as a romantic type is and always will be laughable—I’m convinced that my appearance does nothing to fit that picture, at least. I used to tell myself that the difference between Godfrey Parke and Godfrey Smith was that my latter incarnation at least had some sense. Too much, anyway, to be swept up in such ridiculous notions again. But at that moment, I could hear nothing but the thumping in my chest and the imagined swelling of strings.

I loved her. I knew it all the more now.

She noticed me and let out a shriek, which abruptly silenced my inner reverie. Her associate ran over and asked what the matter was.

“Oh n—nothing,” she stammered. “I thought I saw a mouse, but I was wrong.”

“A mouse? Oh good heavens. I’ll get the manager.”

“No no, please don’t do that,” Irene waved her hands. “I’m sure I was mistaken. In fact, I think it was a spider. Yes. Definitely a spider. A very large spider.”

She turned to me.

“Isn’t that right, sir?”

She made a subtle revolving motion with her hand, asking me to play along.

“Why, yes, I’m sure it was,” I told the woman.

“And he was good enough to kill it, so really there’s nothing to worry about, Norma. Good-bye!” Irene said as she attempted to hustle her bemused associate back into the storage room.

But the older woman’s eyes suddenly went wide.

“Say, he isn’t—“

“No, Norma.”

“But you said someone was going to—“

“I said no, Norma!” Irene suddenly looked a bit fierce. She began speaking through her teeth.

“That _shipment of lace_ will arrive _next_ month. All right?”

“All right,” said Norma, who shrugged and left the room.

Irene turned to me.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“Never you mind.”

Her voice had returned to a tense whisper.

“Godfrey, what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” I replied.

“For heaven’s sake, if they find you—“

“But Irene—“

“If they find out I’m married, I’m done for! It’s against company policy.”

I took note of her bare ring finger. It was to be expected, of course. The only thing she had on hand when we were married was old brass curtain ring. Worn on a daily basis, it would have been a cumbersome nuisance. Still, I regretted its absence a little.

“You look wonderful,” I said.

Irene blushed.

“I don’t, really. I haven’t had time to set my hair. And I’m sure I have bags under my eyes by now.”

“Not at all.”

“And as for furs and jewelry—“

“You don’t need them,” I said, walking toward her. “You never did.”

But then another rustle from the back room caught her attention. A bespectacled man appeared—the manager, evidently. In a flash, Irene grabbed a hat from a nearby mannequin.

“Oh—I—as I was saying, Mr. Schlubnikoff, this is the latest from Paris. It’s real Alaskan sable.”

In my confusion, I at first thought that Schlubnikoff was the manager’s name. But when another beseeching look from Irene came my way, I caught her drift. I stroked the hat’s fur lining.

“Ah, yes, you see, my wife will accept nothing but sable,” I said, using an accent that was no more the genuine article than a bottle of Russian dressing.

“It won’t disappoint her, Mr. Schlubnikoff, we guarantee it.”

“Well, yes, thank you, er, miss.”

The manager, evidently satisfied, returned to the back room. Irene exhaled.

“Schlubnikoff?” I asked.

“I had to think of something.”

“But _Schlubnikoff_?”

Irene shrugged. “I thought it couldn’t hurt if he took you for a White Russian. He already thinks I’m attracting a better class of clientele, and I want to make that impression stick.”

“He does?”

“Yes. I mean, he doesn’t know who I am, of course, but every so often I’ll do something—you know, something with the old finishing-school touch—and that helps.”

That, as you might imagine, was news to me.

“Just a moment. You went to finishing school?”

She put her hands on her hips.

“Is that so hard for you to believe?”

“No no”—well, yes—“I didn’t mean it that way.”

I couldn’t help but crack a smile, though. “By golly, Irene, you must have been the prize hellion of that class.”

That didn’t go over well, either. I should have known better.

“Godfrey, I’ve had just about enough. You’re going to get me in trouble if you stick around, and I need this job.”

“Just one more thing,” I said. “I came to make sure you were all right. Are you?”

Her face brightened, if only through sheer force of will.

“Why, of course!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I think I’m doing pretty well, in fact. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and suddenly find that you’ve become useful to people.”

I gave her a sheepish smile. “After all, I have _some_ idea.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. I used to think I’d be useful if I got myself a protégée and made him my responsibility, like Mother did. But after Carlo failed his audition for Carnegie Hall—he tried out just before you left, did you know that?—well, I could see there was no future in that. I realized I couldn’t do much for other people without figuring out what to do with myself.”

“And that’s selling ladies’ hats?” I inquired with a little skepticism.

“It’s a start.” She replied. “It’s like you said. You had to learn how to beat life. And I realized that I did too, but I never had, because I never learned how.”

She smiled.

“But I’m learning now, Godfrey. I really am.”

“Without any help from me,” I murmured, trying not to let the painful truth of that statement overwhelm me.

I picked up the hat she’d shown me.

“It would look very pretty on you, at that.”

“Godfrey, please,” she said as she brushed past me toward a hat rack. “I really should get back to work.”

“I suppose you should.”

I wanted to stall further, but my senses were numb and my mind a blank. So I tipped my hat.

Once outside, I looked for a place to be alone. I needed to think things through, and the park would not do. There was an awful finality about that meeting—I was sure of it. And that drove me mad, or near enough, as my feelings for her had never been so strong. But the final calculation was damning: I’d needed her help to face life, and she did not need mine. She didn’t even need me. Two months ago, no one would have dared to call self-reliance Irene’s strong suit, but she now had enough to put me to shame.

Which I couldn’t help but mourn a little. The fact that she no longer acted like a helpless child made me proud of her, and more able to envision myself as her husband rather than her guardian or plaything. But part of me had thrilled to the fact that she had the freedom to act that way—that money and a lack of discipline had exempted her from the drudgery that was most women’s lot in life. I wondered if, by accidentally forcing her into maturity, I had robbed her of a part of herself, that madcap brio that set her apart from mere mortals.

Did she want that? Simply to grow up and face life as most people did? I realized I hadn’t the faintest clue what she wanted now, only the sense that what she desired most of all was to be rid of me. And as Molly said, that wouldn’t be difficult.

So that was that. I loved Irene, but I couldn’t stand in the way of her happiness.

I made my way back up to Sutton Place, wondering what to do with myself. Life would go on, I resolved. I knew this feeling of lovesickness would stay with me, that it would be worse than anything I’d felt for Julia Grosvenor back in Boston. But I also knew I couldn’t let myself slip again. To wind up back where I started would be another way of letting Irene down, to say nothing of the fellows at the club who now depended on me. To see them jobless and consigned to the streets again just because I had romantic troubles would be unconscionable.

I started formulating a plan, a set of rules I would follow to keep myself from repeating past mistakes.

One: I would pour all my energy into making the club a success. I would think of nothing else.

Two: No more alcohol. I was not built for worshipping Bacchus—that ought to have apparent even in my college days. Even at the best of times I found myself under the table whenever I took to the bottle, and the problem compounded itself whenever I had reason to drink.

Three: I would tell no one, not even Tommy Gray, about this last encounter with Irene. I would simply sign the annulment papers when they came.

Four: For Irene’s sake and that of my own sanity, I would no longer associate with the Bullock family.


	8. Chapter 8

Of course, no one told the Bullock family to disassociate themselves from me. And even if they had, there was one person who wouldn’t have listened, anyway. One who, in fact, took delight in sticking her thumb in the eye of anyone who sought her compliance.

“Champagne’s on the house!” Cornelia exclaimed upon entering the club.

I tried to ignore her, but she sidled up to me.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me, Godfrey?”

“What for?” I said as I stared at the mirror behind the bar.

“Why, didn’t you hear? You’re talking to a newlywed.”

I turned around to face her.

“Is that so? Who’s the lucky fellow?”

“My ski instructor! We eloped yesterday.”

She showed off her ring, which I dutifully complimented.

“Your ski instructor, you say? An unusual choice.”

“Not only a ski instructor, but a radical, too. Mother is livid!” Her enthusiasm was genuine, though I couldn’t tell if it was because she was in love or because she’d put one over on her mother.

“Forgive me, but in what way is your husband a radical?”

“Oh, Jörg was kicked out of his country, that’s all. He has this crazy idea about the perfect society. Something about the redistribution of wealth and state-mandated winter sports—I don’t know. Anyway, they didn’t like it. Neither do Mother or Dad.”

“And what about you?”

She grinned. “Oh, I don’t give a hoot. I just think he’s gorgeous.”

She ordered champagne and attempted to prompt a toast out of me, which didn’t succeed for reasons that I hope are obvious. So she made one herself.

“To the Park Avenue brats of the world, who are doing pretty well for themselves,” she proclaimed with a satisfied smile.

I touched glasses with her and took a sip, figuring my plan for self-control was now shot to pieces anyway.

“Congratulations. I only wish I could say the same for the brats of Chestnut Street.”

“You, Godfrey? You’re making out all right.”

“I am?”

“I should say so. You’ve got the club, you’ve got all your friends right here.”

“I suppose.”

“And you’ll patch things up with Irene soon enough.”

I looked over at her, startled for a moment. But I reminded myself of recent events, and that she was likely unaware of them.

“I’m afraid not.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Irene. We’re through. She’s got her own life now. I can’t force her to come back to me, and I’ve resolved that I’m not going to try.”

Cornelia thrust down her champagne flute.

“Why of all the—“

“Please, Cornelia, it’s better this way.” I said, trying to maintain my composure.

She folded her arms in front of her.

“I suppose you think that’s the noble thing to do, don’t you?”

“More or less.”

She drew in a sharp breath.

“You’re a wretched little coward, Godfrey. You know that?”

“Now see here!” I said. “This is none of your business.”

I straightened my lapels.

“I think we ought to say good night.”

She turned away and looked as if she were about to take my suggestion. But then she faced me with those frightening viper eyes and grabbed me by the wrist, holding it up.

“Rather sloppy, isn’t it?” she said, wiggling her finger through the buttonhole. “That’s unlike you.”

“That’s also none of your business,” I said as I yanked it back.

“Don’t you have any cufflinks?”

“I do. Only—”

“Only what?”

“Nothing”

“Only you’ve misplaced them?” She laughed. “What a sap you are!”

“Cornelia, I really don’t think—"

“Do you really want to know? I can tell you where one of them is, at least."

She lit herself a cigarette.

"It’s on a silver chain around Irene’s neck, right next to that absurd little heart of hers."

After taking a puff, she flicked the ashes in my direction, as if to emphasize her point.

"And unless you’re planning on breaking it again—which given how you got her into this mess I wouldn’t put past you—you are going to fight for her, do you hear me?”

“Well, do you?” she repeated.

I did, but I’d been rendered speechless. I shot a hand into my pocket, where for no apparent reason I’d been carrying that other cufflink for weeks.

“I—I don’t understand. How—when did she get it?“

“She swiped it when she left that night. She told me if she couldn’t wear a ring she might as well have something else of yours. Some sort of memento, I guess.”

“She did?”

“I don’t know why I bothered to tell you, Godfrey,” she said, grabbing her purse. “It doesn’t make much difference to you, does it?”

Oh, but it did. I was beginning to see the light, albeit in slight, foggy glimmers. Things were not as hopeless as I'd imagined.

“I beg your pardon, Cornelia,” I said with a startled, shamefaced blink or two. “I’m just a little confused. I was sure that Irene wanted rid of me.”

“Now, what gave you that idea?”

“She certainly didn’t seem all that pleased when I last saw her.”

Cornelia snickered. “Oh Godfrey, did you really expect her to make love to you in a hat shop?”

“Well, no, but I—“

“And whatever Molly’s told you, ignore it. That girl will hold a grudge ‘til the cows come home.”

“She will?”

“Of course. I mean, you mix bleach in her cold cream just once and all of a sudden you’re her enemy for life.”

I froze in horror. Thank heaven I hadn’t married _her_.

“That isn’t funny, you know. Molly could have been badly hurt.”

But as usual, Cornelia’s conscience remained defiantly unpricked.

“I was twelve, Godfrey. And anyway, I do wish you’d stop getting sidetracked. She’s wrong about Irene, and if you’ll work at it you’ll get her back in no time.”

“Work at it? I hardly know where to begin.”

She sat down again.

“For starters, she’s not going to chase you anymore, so you’ve got to start chasing her. And to do that, you’ve got to learn to think like her.”

“Think like—now Cornelia, that’s a tall order for any man.”

“Do you want her back or don’t you?”

“Well, of course, but—“

“Then you’ve got to figure out how to bridge the gap. Stop relying on your own puffed-up sense of dignity. It’ll do you good, anyway.”

I winced. “You know, Irene said about as much that night. She said after what happened that I oughtn’t lecture anybody on propriety.”

“Oh, it's served you well up to now, I suppose” she said. “It made you a crackerjack butler, despite my best efforts to lead you astray. But for a beau of Irene’s, propriety’s about as useful as a trap door on a lifeboat.”

She leaned in with a wicked gleam in her eye.

“So you and I, brother dear, we’ve got some things to figure out...”


	9. Chapter 9

It started with an innocuous enough gesture: a dozen roses at her doorstep. But I doubt I would have gone even that far without Cornelia’s call to arms. Before that conversation, I had taken heart in the fact that I’d remained a gentleman through it all—Harvard, Julia, the city dump, the Bullock household, where I’d gone so far as to pass myself off as a gentleman’s gentleman. But this situation was different. It called for letting go, for grand gestures, for shrugging off the approbation of others. That’s because Cornelia was right: Relying on the manners I’d been brought up with might charm an ordinary sort of woman, but it was a sure way to lose Irene forever. So, I began looking for creative ways to attract her attention.

Cornelia said she knew the roses wouldn’t work— _très ordinaire_ , you see. Sure enough, I didn’t even have to enter Irene’s building to figure that out. There they were, splayed under the lid of the trash can. I felt a pang of regret but moved on.

The next item I sent in the mail was a box of chocolates, one in which I left only the caramel-coconut pralines she so adored. Irene had a prodigious sweet tooth: Whenever I carried a tray of chocolates into the Bullock parlor, I could be certain that any and all caramel-coconut pralines would vanish within seconds. To that, I received a response—from Molly, that is, in a brief, scolding missive:

 

> What kind of louse sends over a half-eaten box of chocolates? I finished them before Irene got home. Do you think you can get away with treating her like a dog waiting for table scraps? Shame on you!

Always a terrific help, that Molly.

“Serves you right,” sniffed Cornelia when I showed her the letter. “You can’t act like any old lovelorn beau and expect that to impress her. She’s had dozens of those. Now think, Godfrey. Think!”

My third effort thus delivered a more considered touch. After combing the shelves of F.A.O. Schwartz for hours, I found the perfect accomplice: a stuffed gray billy goat. A live goat and I, you see, were once virtual comrades in arms, both of us as we were herded into the Waldorf-Ritz for that silly charity contest. I attached a tag onto his collar, which read: “From your friend at the scavenger hunt.” That, I was convinced, would make a difference.

Which it did, but not to the extent I’d hoped. I received a reply, this time from Irene herself:

 

> I’m keeping Mister Scragglebeard, who after all is an innocent in this affair. I will make him a little hat and he will sit at my bedside and be the absolute green-eyed darling he is. But I have no words for his sender at present.

I folded the note and put it in my breast-pocket, where it remained all day. As short and curt as it was, it was at least a welcome sign that Irene the impish woman-child hadn’t entirely transformed into Irene the professional saleslady.

But then, alas, came my most regrettable attempt at wooing her.

 


	10. Chapter 10

That morning, I rented a pair of roller skates. The plan was for me to get Irene's attention by gliding past the hat-shop window. I had thought that it might amuse her to the point of letting down her guard. Perhaps she’d have even joined me. Unfortunately, that was not what came to pass.

I was not a very deft roller skater, I quickly discovered. I could have sworn that I’d been able to hold my own at the frog pond as a boy. I should have known better—that was ice skating, of course, and I was by no means a boy anymore. I tottered up and down 23rd Street, trying like the devil to make my disobedient feet do my bidding. I grabbed at fire hydrants and mailboxes to steady myself, which I found I had to do every three feet or so.

But every time I looked through the window of the hat shop, I didn’t see her. I checked the hours—it should have been open. But I saw no one inside.

I kept at it for a while to no avail. Eventually, a low hum emanating from down the street piqued my curiosity. As I maneuvred inelegantly toward it, the sight of a large crowd began to take shape. Some held signs; others blew whistles. Soon the noise died down and one head popped up above the others. A fair head.

“Fellow workers, you don’t know what a thrill it gives me to get up here and speak to you today. A real thrill. You’d better believe it.”

It couldn’t be.

“To see us all here together, employees from hat shops, haberdashers, button shops, fur stores—“

I still couldn’t quite believe it. I skated a little closer.

“—all of us fighting for a fair shake. I tell you, it’s a real thrill."

Irene waved her fist above her head.

"And it’s _also about time_!”

Cheers erupted from the crowd. A few of the signs bobbed. “Salesgirls Unite!” one read. “It’s Past Time for Overtime!” “Don’t Be a Rat! Boycott Hoyt’s Hats!”—and so forth.

Clearly giddy at the prospect of having all eyes on her, she continued:

“And if they think we’re not going to fight, I can promise you this: They’ve got another thing coming!”

More cheers.

She continued, her excitement beginning to impede her intelligibility:

“We’re going to fight and we’re going to win. And don’t you fall for that old line that we’ll put them out of business. We deserve a living wage, and for that, those dandies up there on Park Avenue can afford the pocket change! Believe you me, they can afford to shell out another two bucks for that new sable coat, or that new traveling bag, or that patent-leather purse with the pearl-studded strap, or that cute little thing—Oh, I forget its name, only I saw in the window of—Norma, you saw it, didn't you? It was a little—”

“Hey Reenie!” a voice rang from the crowd.

“Yes?” She called out.

“Slow down! This ain’t a steeplechase.”

The picketers laughed. I scanned the crowd, aiming to direct a withering stare at the anonymous heckler. But Irene took it with impressive good humor.

“I know, I know. This is all very new to me. I'm not used to making public speeches."

She grinned. "Public scenes, maybe, but not public speeches." 

The crowd laughed again, which encouraged her.

"And what we're doing here is new to a lot of us. But all I got up here to tell you is that we work hard, and we deserve better than what we’ve got. Anyone could tell you that. And anyone could tell you what we've got to do: We've got to stand together and fight for it.”

Amid the applause, I could only gaze at her in awe. It would have been helpful if I had managed to keep my balance as well.

But all it took was a slight nudge for my feet to give out. Down I went, accidentally grabbing a woman’s handbag in the process. She attempted to swat me with it, but caught the arm of a passer-by instead. He then told her to watch it and barreled straight into another protester, who swung her sign at him. And then, pandemonium.

The dozen or so policemen who had been standing by sprung into action, clearing a path for themselves with their billy clubs. Some of the strikers were carted away, screaming. At first, I merely made a few failed attempts to get on my feet again. But then I heard one scream that I could not ignore.

“No! Stop!" Irene yelped. "You can’t do this! I know my rights! It's against the Constitution! And the Bill of Rights! And the Gettysburg Address! Let go! Help!” She attempted to fend off the two officers who were pulling her off the soapbox. Handcuffs came out. In a flash, I unbuckled the skates and rushed over.

“I think you’d better unhand that young lady,” I said, in an even voice still forceful enough to pierce through the surrounding racket.

Irene’s mouth flew open. “Godfrey!”

“Get out of the way, mister!” one of the policemen barked.

I moved closer. “I said you’d better unhand that young lady. If you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

“Says who?” said the other.

“Do you know who she is?”

“Yeah, the Queen of Sheba. Now beat it!”

Perhaps I should not have said what came out next, but I was getting desperate.

“That happens to be the daughter of Alexander Bullock,” I called out to them. “So unless you want to lose your pension fund's most generous contributor, you will let her go this instant!”

The crowd simmered down a little.

The younger of the two officers was still attempting to hustle Irene toward the paddy wagon. But the older one, a sandy-haired fellow with a bad case of gin blossoms, stopped him and addressed me.

“Alexander Bullock?”

“Yes.”

He moved closer, 'til we stood nose-to-pitted-nose. “And just how do you know that?”

Irene’s eyes grew wide. She shook her head at me, begging me not to reveal that crucial bit of information.

I did not. I simply told them that I was once the Bullock family’s butler.

I looked back at Irene, whose relief was palpable. They unlocked the handcuffs.

“Wait a minute,” the bulb-nosed lieutenant said to the rookie. “She called him Godfrey, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, I think so. Why?”

“Then that fella’s not just her ex-butler. He’s her husband.”

A few gasps escaped from what was left of the crowd. Irene shut her eyes. It’s quite possible that the deep shade of red that now colored her face matched my own.

The rookie squinted. “How do you know that?”

“Was all over the society pages. ‘Park Avenue’s Irene Bullock Marries Butler Godfrey Smith.’”

“Since when are you innarested in the society pages, Murphy?”

“SINCE MY WIFE STARTED HOGGING THE SPORTS SECTION, AWRIGHT?” he bellowed.

Then he motioned in our direction.

“They’re married but they’re on the outs. I read that, too. Anyway, we’d better let ‘em go.”

They began to leave, but then he turned back to Irene.

“Hope you two can work things out, Mrs. Smith. You don’t belong on street corners.”

They left.

“Sometimes I think I don’t belong anywhere,” said Irene softly as she watched the crowd disperse.

She sniffled.

“Now then, please don’t cry about it. I thought you did very well,” I said, offering her a handkerchief.

She refused it without looking at me.

“I did until you came along. Now everything’s out, and everyone knows everything about everything.”

“But if it was already in the papers, wasn’t that somewhat inevitable?”

“Inevitable,” Irene let out a sad laugh. “I used to think a lot of things were inevitable, and then they turned out to be—I don’t know. Un-inevitable.”

Her eyes met mine, but they offered me no comfort.

“Godfrey, please go away. The next time I need someone to rescue me out of a job, I’ll let you know.”

She left.

I wish I’d had the presence of mind to follow her. As I stood motionless, I heard the voices of two women behind me.

“Poor kid. She’ll get sacked for sure now.”

“But if she’s really from Park Avenue, why’d she need the job in the first place?”

“Aw, they’re all a bunch of skinflints up there.” She tilted her head in my direction. “Bet he was too cheap to support her. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

They did, giving me no chance to protest their verdict. There was little point in doing so, anyway. The idea that I was a heel seemed to be gaining traction. Molly thought I was; so did Irene. And now these two women.

Not to mention the fellow at the skate-rental stand. He wouldn’t take those roller skates back and forced me to buy them outright. You see, I did not have time to take them with me when I ran for Irene. They had been caught in the stampede, which left them pretty bent out of shape. And they weren’t the only ones.


	11. Chapter 11

"Cornelia, would you kindly stop laughing?"

But it was clear that nothing was going to silence her convulsions, save eventual shortness of breath.

"Oh Godfrey, that's priceless! I can just imagine all those picketers falling over each other like a line of dominos." 

"That's not what happened." 

"Oh, it's a scream!" She nearly fell off her seat.

"I suppose it doesn't matter to you that Irene'll lose her job, does it?"

She calmed down a little but was no less mirthful. "It was as good as gone, Godfrey. I'm surprised she kept it as long as she did. Anyway, I can't wait to see what you'll do tomorrow."

That took some nerve.

"There isn't going to be any tomorrow, Cornelia. I've had it."

"What?"

"You've heard what I said. I've had it."

“You dope! You can’t give up now,” she exclaimed. “You'll get her. You just need something more dramatic.”

“Don’t you think this has gone on long enough?”

“No! Now come on, Godfrey. Think harder.”

"Cornelia, I—"

“I said, think! Irene would never give up on something she wanted without throwing a fit about it. Now what would she do?”

This repeated thought experiment was beginning to drive me up the wall, but I tried once more.

“Oh, I don’t know. She’d have one of her spells, I suppose. Or pretend to, but I—”

Cornelia’s eyes grew wide. The word “eureka” might as well have been flashing in them. Her excitement frankly alarmed me.

“Oh no,” I said. “No, that’s all right for a woman, but I—“

“Godfrey, you’ve got to do it. No question.”

At her insistence, we began to hash out a plan.

“I don’t feel right about this,” I said. “This time, _I_ could get arrested.”

“Isn’t Irene worth it?”

“Of course, but—“

“Then you’re going to do it.”

“After all, there’s a little thing called ‘breaking and entering,’ and if Molly—“

“I said you’re going to do it.”

“I tell you, I’m not making a fool of myself again!” I protested.

“You’re never going to get her back if you don’t,” she said. “For heaven’s sake, I thought you’d have realized that by now.”

 “Cornelia,” I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. “I’m beginning to think this isn’t about Irene at all.”

“What?”

“I can’t shake the feeling that this is all a sham concocted by you to—I don’t know what. Perhaps you’re just stringing me along for your own amusement.”

“Now would I do that?” she responded. Her expression went from coy dismay to something more genuine as she saw that I wasn’t kidding. She sighed. “Come now, Godfrey. I thought we buried the hatchet ages ago.”

“Well after all, didn’t you once say you liked to see things wriggle?”

“Oh, that,” she said with a little laugh. “Well, when something wriggles as long and as pathetically as you have, my dear, it gets tiresome to watch.”

She put a hand in mine, eyes down, with a sudden attack of bashful sincerity that still didn’t come naturally to her.

“Plus, there’s still the matter of Milady’s Necklace. I haven’t forgotten that, even if I can never repay you.”

“It was nothing,” I said, though to be honest I still look back on that feat with pride. Saving her family with the pearls she tried to frame me for stealing was not an easy undertaking, after all.

“I wouldn’t have done in very well in the poorhouse, Godfrey. I think you know that.”

“No one ever does.”

“Now come on,” she said as she dragged me to my office. “We still need to figure out the details.”


	12. Chapter 12

The closer we came to that day, the more anxious I became. I wrestled with the feeling that this was all too ridiculous and would come to naught anyway. That’s why, the day before the plan was to be carried out, I revealed it to Tommy Gray in its entirety.

“If you’re looking for discouragement, Godfrey, you’ve come to the wrong place,” he said. “I think it’s a capital idea.”

“You do?”

“Certainly. I look forward to seeing it carried out. And I look forward to congratulating Irene on her triumph.”

“ _Her_ triumph?”

“Yes, for her success in driving you to your wit’s end.”

“Now Tommy,” I said with a laugh. “After all, Irene never _intends_ to drive anyone to his wit’s end.”

“Intentions aren’t the point. She’s done it, and it’s doing you a world of good.”

“You’re not making much sense.”

“Godfrey, I’ve made quite a study of you,” he said, leaning back. “I’ve only an amateur’s grasp of psychology, but I think I know your problem.”

“You do?”

“Yes. You’re too reserved. It’s how we were brought up, of course. Every member of the old Boston crowd thinks himself a sort of New World nobleman. But it grates against your nature. And you don’t take bad news well, old boy, though you try to hide it. Thus when faced with a crisis you’re compelled to pretend that you’re a great tower of strength. An admirable trait, of course, until you find yourself by the bank of the East River.”

I looked away. “That was once, Tommy.”

“More than once. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that little incident up at Harvard, either. All over that one mark in Virgil, of all things. And there may be occasion for it to happen again if you keep bottling things up the way you do. But I’ve got a hunch. I think Irene’ll be the one to break you of that habit.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. I predict that she’ll keep you so off-balance that you’ll fall and crack wide open. You won’t be able to hide your feelings from her.”

“And you think that’s what I need.”

“Decidedly.”

“If you say so.”

“I’ve known the Bullocks for a while now. Irene’s cleverer than most people think.”

“I don’t doubt it. But, Tommy, she’s still so young.”

“Yes, well, her attraction to you is a bit of a mystery,” he said with a smirk, pouring himself a drink. “But it’s there, just the same”

“That’s a comfort. Still, this plan, it’s so screwy, I—“

“Then it suits her. And you too.”

He put a hand on my shoulder.

“Give it a chance, old boy. In a few months, you’ll be saying that Irene is the best thing that ever happened to you.”

I looked at him, suddenly overtaken by a sense of nervous excitement. There was a chance tomorrow’s plan would work. And if it did—oh, but I couldn’t think that far ahead just yet. But I could correct Tommy on one point.

“I don’t need a few months. I know it already.”

He grinned like a schoolboy. “Then hop to it!”


	13. Chapter 13

All right, enough of my evasions. I’ll bet your patience has run thin. You would like to know just what this confounded plan was. I promise I will reveal all shortly, but before I begin, I would just like to emphasize once more that it was not my idea. By the time I arrived at Irene’s building, I was in high enough spirits to invest myself fully in its execution. But I hope you understand how unlike me it was to do such a thing.

I had a vase in my hand, one apparently identical to an item in Molly’s possession. It was the type of ornament one purchased with the use of Green Stamps, I found out, so at least she wasn’t going to think I’d destroyed a precious heirloom. Cornelia followed, but she stayed only long enough to pick the lock to the apartment (how she had obtained that particular skill was a secret she opted not to reveal). She stood upright, threw me a salute, and left.

I had plenty of time but decided not to waste it. I took Molly’s vase from the mantelpiece and hid it in a closet. I then returned to the center of the room and released the one I was carrying, which shattered upon impact. I cleared a space for myself among the shards and lay down. Closed my eyes. Practiced shallow breathing for a while. Counted the seconds, then the minutes, until a key entered the lock.

My eyes were shut, but I believe Irene and Molly screamed in unison as soon as they saw me. I felt a twinge of guilt for upsetting them but managed not to let it show. They began thumping around:

“Molly!”

“What in blazes—“

“Oh Molly, no!” Irene cried.

“Was there a burglar—“

“Oh Molly, if anything's happened to him, I—“

“Calm down! Come, let’s see if he’s breathing.”

They rushed toward me. Molly grabbed my wrist while Irene put her ear to my chest. Would I be a cad if I admitted that the sensation of two women fussing over me wasn’t entirely unpleasant?

“He is,” Molly said with an air of authority.

“Oh thank goodness,” Irene replied. “Got any smelling salts?”

“No, I don’t think so. They’ll have it down at Whelan’s, though. Come on.”

The clicking of heels stopped abruptly at the door. I heard Molly’s voice again.

“Hang on. Irene, do you remember how you used to fake those fainting spells?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think Godfrey might be? I wonder—“

Irene gasped. “Molly, what are you saying?”

“Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Godfrey would never do such a thing!” said Irene, far more reverently than I deserved.

“You mustn’t give him too much credit, dearie. This here is the man who kicked you to the curb just after saying ‘I do.’ He’s capable of hurting you, Irene, and don’t you forget it.”

“He was only being honest,” she replied with a palpable ache in her voice. “And who could blame him? I all but hoodwinked him into marrying me. And after the strike went bust, I—“

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“But Molly, he _wouldn’t_ do something like this.”

I’m not sure what happened next. Irene claims I twitched; I’m sure I didn’t. But in any case, something must have given her an inkling that Molly had the right idea.

I had thought that the most they would do would be to throw a pail of water at me. But somehow, as if intending to reenact that long-ago event exactly, they proceeded to drag me toward the bathroom down the hall.

“Oof, he’s heavy.”

“I’ll say. When all this is over I’m going to put him on a diet.”

Molly set my head down on the floor. “Just one moment: You’re not planning to take him back, are you?”

Irene let go of my feet. “He is my husband, after all.”

“But the annulment—“

“Suppose I don’t want it?”

“Oh, let’s not sit around and argue like this,” Molly said. “Now heave!”

They made it to the bathroom, though I could feel their arms straining. With one last push they dropped me into the tub and turned on the water. It was cold, and an awful shock to my system, but I didn’t flinch. Instead, I slowly opened my eyes.

“GODFREY!” They shouted.

“Godfrey, what is the meaning of this?” Molly demanded to know.

I turned to Irene, who was nearly beside herself, and smiled.

And I hope you’ll forgive the immodesty, but I consider my next statement the pièce de résistance.

“Miss Irene loves me. She put me in the shower.”

Molly looked just as confused and flustered as I expected. She had every right to be. It was a nonsensical statement to anyone but Irene. And of course it was intended for her alone.

She put a hand to her mouth.

“Oh, Godfrey,” she said, her voice hushed and, to my ears, on the verge of breaking into a million crystalline pieces. For one awful moment I thought the plan had failed, that I had succeeded only in playing a nasty trick on her. Perhaps she believed I sought nothing more than petty revenge. I held my breath.

But in one fell swoop, she allayed those fears by vaulting herself into the tub. A crest of water rose over the rim and landed just short of Molly's feet. Though I feared that Irene might have hurt herself, the ecstatic look on her face suggested otherwise.

“Oh, darling!” She flung her arms around me.

The last time I was this close to her I pushed her away. I was not about to make the same mistake twice.

Molly was aghast. “Irene! You’ll ruin your dress! Oh, what in the world are you doing?”

She then addressed me.

“That was a childish thing to do, Godfrey. I don’t care what Irene says. That was a very childish thing to do.”

I tore my eyes away from Irene, who was beaming. Her dress billowed in the water as if she were playing Ophelia in reverse.

“That’s just it, Molly. I had to prove I was childish enough to deserve her.”

My reward for that answer was a long and long-awaited kiss from Irene. It was not to have Molly convinced, which she surely wasn’t.

“And you expect me to believe that, Godfrey? Irene, I tell you, you’re making a big mistake. I—Stop that! Oh, I’ve never seen anything so disgraceful in my life. I’ve had enough of this. You should be ashamed of yourselves, the both of you!”

She was right, you know. The sight of us fully clothed in the bathtub, with the shower on full blast, necking, must have been quite the spectacle. I don’t blame her for leaving. I can’t blame myself for enjoying it.

Eventually, Irene pulled away.

“Godfrey?”

“Yes, dear?”

 She let out something halfway between a gasp and a shiver. “I’m cold.”

I laughed. “So am I. Come on.”

“Oh, I hope you don’t get the wrong idea,” she said as I helped her up. “I was just talking about the water. You kiss very well and I don’t want you to think otherwise. I mean, I’ve kissed my share of cold fish and you’re definitely not one of them. You take Charlie van Rumple, for instance—“

“If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon _not_ take Charlie van Rumple.”

“Oh, you know what I mean! You kiss a million times better than he does. But I couldn’t help it. That water was freezing. I couldn’t feel my—“

“Irene,” I whispered. “You don’t need to explain. It’s all right.”

We stepped out of the tub and began to dry ourselves off.

“You were wrong, you know,” I said.

“About what?”

“About that night. I wasn’t being honest. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever told a bigger lie in my life.”

“Then why’d you tell it?”

“I wish I had an answer for you. Fear, I guess.”

“Of me?”

“No. Of course not. Of—oh, myself, if anything.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do, either.”

We sat down. For a moment, neither of us said anything. I must have looked uneasy, for she asked me what the matter was. And I suppose I was uneasy, for I struggled to keep my voice from breaking.

“Irene, you deserve better than me. You should know that. You deserve a husband who isn’t an old stuffed shirt. Someone who didn’t take nearly 40 years to learn how to become a decent human being. But I love you, and if there’s any way I can—“ 

She silenced me in a way only a fool would have minded. I was still new to the thrill of being able to savor kissing her, though the way we were seated on the edge of the tub prevented us from doing so with complete abandon.

“I missed you,” I said after we disengaged.

“Did you?”

“More than anything.”

To my surprise, instead of returning the sentiment, Irene held me at arm’s length and feigned a look of disinterest.

I smiled. “Well then, if I knew this was going to be a one-sided affair, I—“

But then she put a finger to my lips.

“You know, it was like Europe all over again.”

“Whrrt?” I said, still muffled.

She giggled.

“I mean that anytime there was a man in the shop, I’d close my eyes for a second and say to myself that the man was Godfrey.”

“You would?”

She rested her head just above my collarbone. “And every lunch-counter attendant, and every soda jerk, I’d say, ‘There goes Godfrey,’”

“Now Irene, no one in her right mind would mistake me for a soda jerk—“

But she continued, her voice soft and trancelike. “And every street peddler, and every shoe-shine boy. And whenever I walked through the park, all the squirrels and sparrows. And over by the pond, all the little bullfrogs were—“

“Godfrey?” I suggested.

She lifted her head and grimaced.

“No, they reminded me of Father. And that gave me the willies, so I stopped.”

We both erupted in laughter, which was silenced by a sharp knock on the door.

“Oh jeepers,” she said. “I tell you, I’ll never get used to sharing a bathroom with ten other people. What are they going to think?”

“Do you care?”

“Don’t you get it? When we come out, we’re going to look like a couple of head-cases!”

“Aren’t we?”

She thought for a second, looked me up and down, and smiled.

“Well, if you are, I guess we are.”

So we rose, opened the door, and walked straight past Irene’s wide-eyed neighbor, an elderly woman whom Irene later identified as a Mrs. Mazetta. Though the sight of a grown man and woman leaving a bathroom together with soaked-to-the-skin clothes would have turned anyone’s head, I’m happy to report that the attention didn’t bother us a bit. We left single file with our heads held high.


	14. Chapter 14

Of course, it wasn’t as if we had everything sorted out that day. Fate threw another monkey wrench into our plans soon after, during a luncheon with Mr. and Mrs. Bullock one afternoon.

Mr. Bullock left to answer the telephone. When he returned, his expression was tense.

“Godfrey, Irene, I think we should have a little talk.”

“Why Alexander, you look so awfully gray,” said Mrs. Bullock. “Whatever’s the matter?”

“That was the mayor’s office,” he responded. “It seems these two were married without a license.”

Irene’s eyes widened in alarm. “But he said it was all right! Mayor Courtney said it was all right! He said it!”

“Well, he may have spoken too soon.”

“But Father, I—“

“And another thing." He was now addressing me. “What name did you give him?”

 “Smith,” said a suddenly stricken-looking Irene. “He gave it as Smith. Godfrey Smith. Only I gave it for him. You see, I did most of the talking and because I thought his name was Smith back then, I said Smith.”

“You did?” I asked.

“Godfrey, don’t you remember?”

“I’m afraid not. That night was a blur to me.”

“Why I—“ Irene started, but then huffed in frustration. “Sometimes, Godfrey. Sometimes I think you’re not all there!”

That elicited a quiet snicker from Cornelia, who evidently considered us well-matched.

“But there’s nothing to it!” said Mrs. Bullock. “Just tell the mayor to change the name on the paper to Parke.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Mr. Bullock replied. “He can call them Amos and Andy if he wants to, but it still doesn’t change the fact that these two aren’t legally married.”

To that, Irene started sobbing.

“Oh, my poor baby,” said her mother, who reached out for her. “Really, Godfrey, you ought to be more careful in future.”

“I can see that,” I said, desperately trying to take stock of the situation. We’d just settled in together and, well, had had our wedding night many times over by then. It took me a few seconds to get my thoughts in order.

“I can only say that disrespecting Irene was the last thing I intended to do.”

“We know that, Godfrey,” said Mr. Bullock. “Irene, will you stop blubbering?”

“I can’t help it. After all this was over I thought I’d get to be Godfrey’s wife, not his parasol.”

“Para _mour_ ,” said Cornelia, who rolled her eyes.

“All right, paramour! Ooh, you always have to show me up, don’t you?”

Cornelia shot me a deadpan look. “Godfrey, I’ve gone as far as I will go,” she said. “She’s all yours.”

“Thank you,” I replied uncomfortably.

I closed my eyes.

“I just want to say how terribly sorry I am to have put all of you in this position.”

“Oh nonsense, Godfrey,” Mrs. Bullock said. “License or no license, you’ve been part of the family for ages.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Oh—but isn’t that a pity?”

“What is?” Mr. Bullock asked his wife.

“Well, they _can’t_ get married now, can they?”

“Why not?”

Mrs. Bullock placed a finger on her lower lip. “Well, I always heard that two members of the same family _shouldn’t_ get married. Otherwise you get children with—I don’t know—with two heads who talk gibberish or something.”

“So they’ll take after Irene, then,” quipped Cornelia

“You shut up!” snapped her still-agitated sister.

I made a gentle endeavor to set Mrs. Bullock’s mind at ease.

“That is only the case for blood relations, madam. It doesn’t apply to metaphorical family.”

“Ohhhhh,” she replied, though she still seemed to be struggling to make sense of it. “Oh, I see. Thank heaven.”

“If I may interrupt this biology lesson,” said Mr. Bullock, “I think we should clear up this matter as soon as possible.”

He picked up the telephone again.

“Clarence? Bring the car around. We’re going to City Hall, right away.”

“Wait a minute,” I said.

Irene was still on the tail end of her crying jag. I took her hand.

“Irene, darling, if there’s one good thing to come of this, it’s the chance to do it right.”

I took off my ring and presented it to her.

“Irene Bullock, will you—“

“Godfrey, for heaven’s sake, stop wasting time,” she said as she wiped off her tears with one hand and pulled me toward the door with the other. “We have to go get married.”

Well, at least I had my answer.

On the ride to City Hall, Irene reconciled with Cornelia to the point of designating her the maid of honor. After I pointed out that Cornelia was no maid and, frankly, not all that honorable, the lady in question wasted no time in making her sentiments known. She grabbed a newspaper, rolled it up, and proceeded to thrash me over the head with it. She then handed it to Irene and called it her wedding present.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Money was tight those first few months. Tommy Gray’s pockets ran only so deep, and I was determined not to sink any more of the Bullocks’ fortune into the club than necessary. And even if I’d had the courage to wire my family, they put that thought to rest. My father’s letter reached me a week after our trip to City Hall:

 

> Son,
> 
> Our connections in New York have informed us of your marriage to the daughter of Alexander Bullock. I had hoped to discover that this was unfounded gossip, but your mother and I must now resign ourselves to the report’s veracity.
> 
> I do wish you had spoken with me first. You may rest assured that I would have counseled you against such a union. The Bullock fortune is a mere generation old and its future is far from assured. I’ve also received word that both Bullock daughters have an unwholesome reputation. It is not fitting for us consort with individuals of such questionable character, much less welcome them into our family. I shudder to think of how this will reflect on your sister’s marriage prospects—Augusta is now past thirty, after all.
> 
> Still, what’s done is done. You were always unaccountably headstrong; you must get it from your mother’s side. I regret that we cannot welcome you home, but you were lost to us a long time ago.
> 
> Yours,
> 
> C. Endicott Parke

I tore up the letter and kindled the fire with it. Not because I was “headstrong”—I’d learned to accept the unchangeable nature of my father’s arrogance and my mother’s compliant silence—but because I never wanted Irene to read it. I did not regret the fact that she would never consort with them; they were beneath her. And the rest of the Bullocks, too, who despite their eccentricities had helped me in my hour of need, a time when my own kin were still more intent on avoiding public disgrace.

Happily, though, our ties with Molly were mended. Our conversations were still somewhat strained during her first few visits to the club, which were made mostly for Irene’s sake. But soon she began arriving on the arm of the same gentleman. A pleasant enough fellow, by the looks of him. I had a chat with him, and it came out that he drew up crossword puzzles for the New York Journal-American for a living. This tickled Irene to no end. She called it a match made in heaven.

I wouldn’t have gotten through it without her. Those mornings when I woke up dog-tired after a late night, she could be counted on to spring me out of bed by any means necessary. And she gave character to the club, in which she was a nightly, sparkling presence. It was Irene who insisted that we not exclude any patrons out of prejudice—“The world isn’t painted all one color. Why should this place be?”—and that attracted people turned away from the more established night spots. Our dance floor became a regular League of Nations. I hadn’t even known that there _were_ Marshall Islanders living in New York, but there they stood, polishing off rum cocktails and joining in the New Year’s chorus of Auld Lang Syne.

And once Irene decreed that anyone who taught her a new party trick could get a drink scratched off his tab, it became a beloved ritual. Revelers from across the city came to see if they could impress her and become the star of the evening. But it did cause a slight row once, when a raven-haired Viennese émigré turned all heads upon entering. She removed her mink coat to reveal a black backless evening gown, pulled out a gold watch from her décolletage, and said she would give a lesson in hypnosis, with me as the subject.

Irene’s jaw went rigid. In a flash, she mixed a gin and tonic, slammed it onto the counter, and said, “My, what a charming trick. _There’s your drink!_ ” The two women then engaged in what looked to be a battle-to-the-death staring contest, as if trying to hypnotize each other. The visitor eventually relented.

"Aha!" shouted Irene, to the amusement of the other patrons.

But that was hardly a typical situation. Jealousy didn’t define our marriage; as you might expect, the glue that bound us together instead contained a generous dollop of lunacy. Mutual lunacy, as I found my life beginning to synchronize with her offbeat rhythm. Tommy, though happy to see his predictions of marital happiness realized, thought us dangerously off our heads at times. He was especially unnerved by our habit of setting up lounge chairs on the roof.

“When you two fall and break your necks, don’t forget that I told you so!” he’d shout from below.

But we weren’t about to give up our Sunday rooftop picnics—they too had become a tradition. We were having one the day Irene, sitting across my lap as we ate, brought up an old, sore subject:

“Godfrey, what was the bitter experience?”

“Hm?” I said, my mouth full of turkey sandwich.

“The bitter experience. The girl who made you a forgotten man. Who was she?”

“Irene,” I said after swallowing. “I really don’t wish to discuss it.”

“But Godfrey—“

“I said I won’t discuss it!” I repeated, more forcefully than the situation warranted.

Irene sighed and watched a tugboat pant its way across the water. After a few seconds, she tried again:

“Please?”

“Irene, the subject is a painful one for me. I’d just as soon forget it.”

Another pause. Irene slumped down further into my lap. A sulky expression clouded her face.

“You’re not being fair to me, Godfrey.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know all about my bitter experience and I know nothing of yours.”

I squinted in the sunlight. “ _Your_ bitter experience?”

“Yes.”

“What was that?”

With a look of innocent astonishment, she lifted her head and said, “You, silly!”

“What?”

“Why, you. Didn’t you know that?”

“How was I your bitter experience?” I asked, though I half-dreaded hearing the answer.

She set her head back again and looked up at the sky. “I mean, you can just imagine, can’t you? You’re the only man I ever loved, Godfrey, and I was sure you felt the same way. But that night I—I started to think I’d imagined it all. That every look you gave me was just a look, and every smile just that of an obliging butler. And maybe even you only put me in the shower because I'd gotten you good and sore at me. And so all of a sudden the bottom fell out. I mean, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I looked for a way out but figured I’d make a mess of that, too. And until Molly found me, I—“

She stopped herself and turned to me with an embarrassed smile. “But that’s just like me, isn’t it? Head of the dramatics class, as always.”

At that moment I gave silent thanks that she did love me. Because she could break a man’s heart without trying.

My first instinct was to scoop her up and assure her I would never again cause her the least bit of unhappiness. But as terrible as this may sound, I couldn’t. I would never leave her, of course, nor would I ever cause her intentional harm. But I knew too much of life to be sure that I would never hurt her—or her, me—without intending to. No marriage I had ever heard of proved immune to at least one of those careless errors that was to be felt for years afterward.

But I realized something else. If I’d kept my mind on worries like that, the situation in which I found myself would never have happened. Having Irene lying here, her cornsilk hair forming soft ripples over my arm, would have been nothing but a schoolboy fantasy. I resolved never to take it for granted.

“I didn’t know,” I murmured. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Oh, there’s nothing to forgive now,” she said as she sat up. “After all, my bitter experience didn’t stay bitter for long. But yours was different.”

“Yes, it was.”

“So what was it?”

I owed her an explanation. I could see that now.

“Well, to begin with I must say that I was never much of a lover…”

Irene burst into giggles.

“As I was saying,” I said, teasingly adopting the tone of a flustered schoolmaster before continuing.

“What I mean is, I was never all that comfortable around women. I had plans to practice law and devoted all my attention to it. I was in law school, in fact, when I met Julia. Her brother taught there. She’d studied art history at Smith and graduated near the top of her class. We took to each other right away, or so I thought. We were engaged within the year. My father decided to overlook the fact that her family wasn’t exactly well-off. He fancied himself an intellectual too, you see, and took this as an opportunity to look broad-minded. Also, the Grosvenors were said to be related to English nobility, and—”

“Was she a blonde?” Irene interjected.

“No, why?”

“Oh nothing. I was just wondering if you had a type.”

“Oh. No, I don’t think so.”

“I’ll say you don’t,” said Irene, who suddenly shrunk back again. “I’ll bet Julia’d never ask a dumb question like that, her being a college graduate and all.”

“Irene,” I said. “Please don’t compare yourself to her. You’re miles above her in every way, as I hope I shall make clear.”

She responded with a shrug. I wanted to convince her further but resolved to complete this whole uncomfortable history lesson first.

“But in any case, we were engaged for a while. Then she was off to London to pursue an advanced course of study. I knew it would be expensive, so I resolved to support her. At the time I had no income except my father’s allowance, but I saved a little here and there. Also, I brushed up on my knowledge of the stock market, which came in handy when I saw your father was in trouble.”

“Oh, you mean when you were selling shirts?”

“Short.”

“That’s what I said, shorts.”

I thought to correct her but stopped myself. That, too, could wait.

“But why didn’t you go along?”

“Well, I had my own studies to finish, and the bar, though I never got that far. Also, I began to suspect she was not dying to have me over there.”

“Oh?”

“The letters and cables stopped coming. Nothing on Christmas or my birthday. Nothing, even, to confirm that she was receiving the money I’d been wiring her every month. In hindsight, I should have known that the brush-off was coming. But you know what they say about absence.”

“Don’t I, though,” Irene said.

I kissed the side of her forehead before continuing.

“But the question was why. There was a rumor going around that she’d been seen with Stanley Baldwin’s valet.”

“Stanley Baldwin. Isn’t he the president over there?”

“The prime minister.”

“Oh,” she said uncertainly. “Of course. The prime minister.”

“In any case, that’s what everyone was saying. But when I heard that she was discontinuing her studies and planned to sail back alone, I was all too willing to welcome her with open arms. I put some of my savings into a small Renoir sketch. A sort of homecoming present, you see. Then I drove down to meet her. But she barely spoke a word to me on the drive from New York. When we reached her apartment and I unveiled the sketch, she—“ The words caught in my throat. I didn’t expect that. This should have been ancient history to me.

“She what?”

“She laughed."

“Oh.”

“She asked how a man of my background could have been duped into choosing something so feeble and passé. And then it came out.”

“What did?”

“It was a lie. The valet. Not that she’d remained strictly faithful, she said, but that wasn’t why she wanted out of our engagement. She gave it to me straight: I was a terrible bore and she’d never taken up with me if it weren’t for the chance to mix with the old Boston set. Now, with her London connections, she had little need of that. So we were finished.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, almost. Her mother begged me to understand that she’d had her heart broken over there. And though I hated the idea of being a cuckold, I did try. At least for a while. Because the confounding thing about it was that I still loved her, even then.”

Irene responded at first with a solemn look, then an embrace.

“I don’t know how some people can treat other people like they do,” she said. “I always try to see the good in people, but some people—I tell you, some people make it difficult.”

I smiled. “I know exactly what you mean.”

“You know, sometimes I wonder if it’s because of those people that we’ve got the Depression. Or why there’s all that trouble in Europe right now.”

“Well, there’s more to it than that.“

Irene looked down. “Yes, I know.”

I ducked down a little to meet her gaze. “But I think you have the right idea.”

She smiled and grabbed my hands. “And I knew whoever it was wasn’t really in love with you. I could tell. I have an instinct for these things. You may not believe it, but I do.”

“No, I believe it.”

“But Godfrey, how did you end up in a city dump?”

I took an uneven breath. “Well, I started drinking too much. And brooding too much, which for me was probably worse. I couldn’t face myself in the mirror. And then I started to look—“

“—for a way out,” Irene finished.

I nodded. She lay her head in her hand.

“You know, people don’t believe it, but we really are cut from the same cloth, aren’t we?”

I shook my head.

“No?”

“No, I can’t picture it.”

“Oh.”

“You see, to me—I guess to me whatever cloth you’re made out of is like silk, lighter than air. Whereas I’m just a strip of old leather that’s been tanned too long.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You do say the silliest things sometimes, do you know that?”

“We have that in common, at least.”

She laughed and pushed me away. “Oh, you!”

We finished the rest of the sandwiches. As we were packing up, Irene had what looked to be an epiphany.

“Godfrey.”

“Yes?”

“You know, there’s something funny about your bitter experience.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, when you look at, it all makes sense.”

“I really don’t think so.”

“But don’t you see it?” she responded, her voice reaching an excited crescendo. “Julia’s lie is my truth!”

“Come again?”

“I mean not exactly. After all, we’re not in London and I’m not getting a fancy college degree or anything, though—would you hold it against me if I were?”

“Of course not.”

“And you weren’t working for the prime minister or anything like that, either. But a valet’s kind of like a butler, isn’t it? More or less? So you were like that butler for the prime minister except that you were the butler for us. And I was like the—no, not like Julia. You said I wasn’t supposed to compare myself to Julia. But still, I wasn’t supposed to fall for a butler and yet I did and then there were all those rumors in the society papers and then I married you except that I didn't really and you aren’t following _any_ of this, are you?”

I blinked a few times as I tried to get my bearings.

“No,” I said as I balanced our picnic basket under my chin and held open the door.

She seemed unbothered. “I didn’t think so.”

“But don’t you worry,” I said as I followed her downstairs. “I’ll catch up eventually.”

**Author's Note:**

> I guess there probably isn't much demand for a My Man Godfrey fanfic, but the question of what happened to Godfrey and Irene always lingered in my mind. I feel like I might not have been the only one.


End file.
